Girl Disrupted

This month's submission is from Lauren Poper, a survivor and writer, who felt called to share her story.... Check out her story below.

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Girl Disrupted 

It is August, 2018, the year I finally acknowledge the enormity of my mother's betrayal. It is August, 2018. I allow myself to sob sometimes, to grieve. There is so much.

I was 16 when the revelation came, straight from the perpetrator. In a hand-wringing confession that was actually a spectacular bid for face-saving, my stepfather told my mother of his regular nighttime excursions to her daughter's bed. He tearfully admitted to sexually “molesting” me. Did he tell her the details? I don't know. Did he tell her that I never said a word or made a sound or even looked at him? Did he tell her how brave I was in my silent refusal to ever participate, of my closed lips, fingers tight fisted, fiercely, silently denying him. Instead I lay still and mute, existing in a black void until he was gone. Molest - a curiously benign sounding word for depravity. Naturally, in my vulnerability, in my terror, I argued against seeking help, legal or psychological. I didn't want to think about it, let alone talk to a stranger about the assaults. What I really wanted was for the ground to open and swallow me whole. My mother readily acquiesced, still to this day pointing to my reluctance, my outright refusal, as a legitimate reason for not getting me any help. This despite some extremely relevant facts. The assault wasn't a one-off. It was more than one night, effectively every week, every month, every year for nearly a decade. My perpetrator was allowed, after a brief 6-month separation, to return to the bosom of the family, to his positions of husband and father. The sexual assaults had consumed nearly half of my entire life. My mother remained married to my perpetrator for another 15 years, until he chose to take his leave, giving him ready access to my broken soul and battered mind. No one, save a literal handful of people, knew the truth. Everyone assumed the 6-month separation my parents endured was the result of infidelity on his part. And how my mother bravely bore her humiliation. All the while letting me know she was bearing this shame to protect me, for me – read, because of me. By all outward appearances, my amazing parents had been able to save their marriage, save The Family. In the meantime, I seemed to be a troubled teen, one without any apparent reason, one who was slowly, brutally breaking her parents' hearts. By my junior year I was a raging bulimic, stealing diet pills and laxatives. I was tanking classes, even my favorite and most important classes, writing to a friend that I wanted to die. I experimented quite dramatically and publicly with alcohol. I didn't appreciate the loss of control. But I did like the numb I felt, it made me feel light.

For my subsequently developed eating disorder, help, again, was not sought. I was lectured, punished, blamed and shamed. When I once lost 13 pounds in 14 days after reaching my goal of a size 7 no one seemed to notice, not even my mother. I was also lectured, punished, blamed and shamed for any other “inappropriate”, reactionary, acting-out behaviors I might display. Behaviors like going to parties where there was alcohol and marijuana. The, predictably, exact type of risk-taking behavior that led to a gang rape when I was 19. A rape where pictures were taken and shared in very public places. This was pre-internet and cell phones, but strangers saw these pictures anyway. And three towns away, a young girl who knew my face but not me, called a grown-up, who called someone else, who called my parents out of concern for my very compromised welfare. It turns out, they were more embarrassed than anything, more hush than concern. Filled with terror and self-loathing, I stayed away from home for 3 nights. I was afraid of what would come next. On the 3rd day I called. My mother answered. I told her I had been raped. At a party. Did I tell her there were 4 boys? I don't remember. I had been drinking. She said she knew. And at that moment I knew how this would go. That I was right to be sobbing my sorries into the phone. That everyone's main concern was where I had been and what I had been doing. I knew I bore the weight of my own responsibility, my own culpability in the situation. I wonder now, why was no one concerned about me? About what had been done to me? Taken from me. Why didn't my mother call the police when I went missing? I had come home late, occasionally arriving in the early morning hours. I never did not come home. Why, when she heard of my rape, didn't my mother move heaven and earth to find me?

And so, with the rape, I was “fine”. I was angry. I was defiant. I was mostly terrified, consumed by fear. I was not going to talk to the police. And I wasn't encouraged to do anything other, even though I knew the names of my rapists and had a credible witness. I was 19 years old. My mother contended and excused herself by pointing out I was an adult making her own decisions. Except I wasn't. I was dying. I was de-compensating. I was losing jobs. I was being erratic. I was screwing up all over the place. So much of my childhood and young-adult life is a blur. I spent as much time as I could curled up tightly in a ball deep inside myself. Only reacting all the time. Only connecting superficially with people because that's all I could handle. Although, you wouldn't think that from their descriptions of, and feelings for me. I was that convincing.

My mother told me that family members were enjoying my downfall as responsible, obedient daughter. They felt we were getting our due comeuppance for me having been such an in-your-face model child. They knew it was too good to be true. And oh how she selflessly bore the shame, or so everyone thought, all the while making sure that I was sure, that yes, I was The Problem and she the long-suffering Mother.

Help came at last in the form of a mental health hospitalization. Where I learned self-harm and how very, very easy killing myself would be. Upon release, and after a very nearly successful attempt, I was returned to the hospital, where I was further schooled in not trusting. Whole chapters can be written about those 60 some-odd days. Where the focus was not on safety and stabilization but on my bad behavior, my bad decision making and my disruption of the family.

Let's talk about disruption. My entire childhood was disrupted. My physical development was disrupted. My mental development was disrupted. My emotional development was disrupted. My social development was disrupted. I was a Girl Disrupted.

I remember back to times my mother preached about the negative psychological impacts of divorce on children. She was always willing to recognize that harm, even as it specifically related to me and her. There has never been that acknowledgment of the massive, long-lasting harm and crimes that were committed against me. There was, "Get your act together!" There was, "What is wrong with you?" There was, "You're so angry! You need to get help!"

There is, "That was 30 years ago!" There is still white washing, excusing and gas lighting. There is continued scape-goating. There is no acknowledgment of this huge, metastasizing tumor I have been carrying on my own.

It is August, 2018. The year I first flirted with the idea that my mother must have been, on some level, aware of what was going on.

It is August, 2018. The year I heard the words, "She knew. She definitely knew", from my sister's lips.

It is August, 2018. It is over 40 years since my nightmare began.

It is August, 2018. The year I finally acknowledge the enormity of my mother's betrayal.

It is Today. I allow myself to sob sometimes, to grieve. There is SO MUCH. 

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